Just an Organ
by IamMaverick
Summary: Perhaps loneliness does this to us. The heart stops being the unexplainable thing that steers us around and teaches us emotions each day and continues to be...just an organ. GregNick Slash


Note: This is just a piece of ...something I wrote kind of for a friend, kind of for my own enjoyment. It was written during the WORST episode of Canadian Idol ever. 3 Josh Palmer

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI nor do I own the characters although I really wish I did. AND the quote from is not mine, I didn't write it.I seriously don't know where it came from... a friend of mine told it to me and didn't say where she got it from.. it was a random conversation so I don't own that either. Now I'm done. Read. Please.

Just an Organ

A wise person once said to me, "Perhaps loneliness does this to us. The heart stops being the unexplainable thing that steers us around and teaches us emotions each day and continues to be…just an organ.

"Suddenly it's just a heart, without any other function than keeping us alive. We just live, but we don't feel alive. Because we lost something that no money can buy us, no hands can give us, and no look can bring us, - along with our heart, we lost our passion. And with our passion – we lost it all.

"So what's the use in dying? When we know what it feels like already..."

To be honest with you, I don't remember who said it to me. It could have been a family member, a random person with a broken heart, and old school mate. Or maybe I'm just denying that such words of wisdom could come from the person whom I met on a bench by the bus stop. I think that's who said it. The old man sitting beside me by the bus stop. He was talking to himself, just talking. Nobody was listening. I'm sure the old man lived on the bench, not just sat there. I felt bad for him, so I listened. I doubt that he even knew he was talking, let alone that I was talking but there I sat, with the man, talking and listening and obviously, I absorbed every word.

Maybe he had been hurt in the past. Someone had broken his heart. Someone had made his heart, just an organ. Did he know what dying already feels like? Only he knows, only the man on the bench who talks but doesn't expect anyone to listen.

How many other people had he said the exact same thing to? Had he changed anyone else's life with his words?

I put the car into park just outside the house I hadn't been in for days. This had been _our_ house at one time. I could see the window closest to the door. _We _had often looked out of that window during thunderstorms, sunsets, sunrises, it was all the same but _we_ were together… unlike now. As I looked closer at the house I could see past the living room and down the hall straight to the last door. That had been _our_ room. We had slept together there every night for the last 4 months. He had held me in his arms as I cried when work got too hard and he had traced my scars with his fingers over and over telling me that I was beautiful no matter what. And I had just lain there, lapping it up, believing every word he fed me. Every time he said he loved him I had said, "I love you too." And every time he told me that we would always be together I would reply, "Forever and ever." And when he told me that no matter what, we'd always make it through I would say, "I can't live without you."

I believed that as long as we were together life would be perfect. I believed that we were in love and nothing and no one could tear us apart. I believed that I had finally found the one perfect, everlasting thing and I would never, ever let go of it. I loved him. I still love him. I will always love him. But I screwed up, plain and simple.

Groaning, I had rolled over in my bed and mumbled a faint, "Nick," before kissing the man's neck that was beside me. Only after I opened my eyes did I realize that this wasn't Nick, but it was my bed. After many curses and trying to remember what I had done that drunken night before, Nick had walked into the room and walked right out as fast as he had come in.

That night he had kicked me out of the house, saying he never wanted to see me again. I had taken my things and gone to the only person who would take me in, Sara Sidle. She had let me into her home and I had been there for little over a week, crying and crying. Wishing Nick would let me talk to him, wishing he would take me back. Wishing that everything was better and we could sit on our couch and watch the sun rise or the lightning strike. But wishes don't always come true.

Nick opened the door. Some time in my thoughts I had made it to the house and managed to knock on the door, and Nick had managed to open it.

He didn't say anything, he just stopped and looked at me with the same sadness that he had carried the night he had found me with the man whose name I never cared to know.

"Nick, please listen to me," I started.

"Talk."

"I'm sorry, I am so sorry. I can't begin to tell you have sorry I am. If only there were words enough to explain how sorry I am, to tell you how-"

"Greg, you're not making sense. More so than usual."

"I'm sorry," I began to plead again.

"Stop it Greg. Stop being sorry."

"But I can't. Nick, if I could only go back in time and do everything differently I would. I wouldn't have gone out that night, I wouldn't have drank that much. I wouldn't have fucked every thing up like this."

"There is no time machine. You may be smart for your age, you may be the next Einstein but you're clueless, Greg. Really clueless."

"Nick, I love you, I need you. Please, forgive me. R-r-r-remember when you would sit with me and tell me that you loved me and nothing would go wrong as long as you loved me and I loved you? Do you remember?"

The Texan looked at the drawstring of his gray torn sweat pants and the hem of his black tee-shirt. The one I could remember putting my hands under to touch his chest and he would hold me, just hold me. "I remember."

"I still love you Nick, I always have, always will. Do you still love me?"

"I can't love you." He whispered.

"But do you love me?" I looked into his green eyes and I could see the answer but he needed to say it for me to believe it. I couldn't remember a time when I had been so desperate for anything. To become a CSI, to show everyone I wasn't just another pretty face, to prove to Nick that I could be his every thing. But I was begging, pleading, crying on his door step and he just stood there… emotionless.

"Yes Greg, I love you. Is that what you want to hear? I love you Greg Sanders! I, Nicholas Stokes, love Greg Sanders!" My heart pounded in my chest, this was everything I ever wanted to hear. He still loved me. He still loved me!"But," there was a 'but'. "But I can't be with you anymore. It hurts me Greg. When I look at you, I feel myself dying, I feel everything leaving me and for the first few minutes that I look at you, everything is alright and I'm just Nick and I'm in love but then I remember everything. I feel the pain come back and Greg, I can't take that. It hurts me too much to be with you."

"I love you." I said, my last chance at getting Nick to let me back, to be mine again.

"I love you too, but you have to leave now."

"Nick…"

"Leave Greg, leave before I… before I call the cops." Nick looked away from me. He looked into the house and then to the ground. His eyes met mine once again and although I could barely see through the tears, I knew he was crying too. I knew. "I'm sorry."

And he shut the door.

A wise person once said, "Perhaps loneliness does this to us. The heart stops being the unexplainable thing that steers us around and teaches us emotions each day and continues to be…just an organ.

"Suddenly it's just a heart, without any other function than keeping us alive. We just live, but we don't feel alive. Because we lost something that no money can buy us, no hands can give us, and no look can bring us, - along with our heart, we lost our passion. And with our passion – we lost it all.

"So what's the use in dying? When we know what it feels like already..."

I don't know who said it, I think it was the old man on the bench. But either way, I know what dying feels like. I've died; I die every time I look at Nicholas Stokes.

Does the old man know that I was listening? Does he know that I think about him whenever I think about Nick? Does he know that those words, sum up my life, and my heart. The organ that does nothing but keeps me alive.

"So what's the use in dying? When I know what it feels like already…"


End file.
